Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Maverick - Gayle Wilson - Страница 15

It was not yet noon, and Michael already knew a lot about the kid he’d been assigned to partner with. Due to his years on the Royal Flush, he had worked with a lot of ranch hands. There were those who grew to hate the creatures they tended, their small cruelties deliberate. More common were the ones who no longer saw the animals as anything other than commodities, the reason they had a job. Something to protect because that’s what they were paid to do.

Working in the morning’s dusty confusion of sheep and dogs, it would have been easy to pick up on those attitudes. Nate Beaumont manifested neither. He was quick and efficient in taking the blood samples, but he was also careful not to unduly frighten or hurt any of the ewes or lambs they handled.

What they were doing was hot, backbreaking work. Michael had discarded his denim jacket by ten o’clock. The kid was still wearing his long-sleeved shirt, a near twin to the one he’d worn yesterday. Beneath it was a waffle-weave thermal underwear top, its three-button neckline visible at the open throat of the plaid. And despite the growing intensity of the sun, he showed no inclination to shed his outer garment as most of the other men had already done.

“What do they do with them?” Michael asked.

The kid didn’t raise his head, slipping the needle into the vein in the ewe’s neck, which he’d expertly located beneath the close-crimped fleece.

“The blood samples, I mean,” Michael prodded.

“Don’t know.”

“You never asked?”

The answer was a negative motion that set the bowl-cut brown hair swinging. Nate withdrew the needle, and Michael reached for the yellow plastic tag on the sheep’s ear.

He was holding her around the head, as the shearers did. She didn’t seem to even realize she’d been stuck.

“Because you don’t give a damn?”

“Because it’s none of my business.”

There had been no direct eye contact between them as there had at dinner last night. It hadn’t been necessary. The routine they’d worked out, virtually without discussion, ran like clockwork.

Michael dragged the sheep to the table, where Beaumont drew the blood. When that was done, Michael read aloud the number from the animal’s tag, and the kid wrote it on an adhesive label, which he then pressed around the vial. He had rarely looked up in the long hours they’d worked together.

“And you aren’t even curious?” Michael prodded.

“No.”

It had been like this all morning. Nate spoke only when asked a direct question and then in the fewest possible words, his voice so low Michael strained to catch the words above the constant noise of the pens.

“You’re supposed to be teaching him how to do that,” Charlie Quarrels yelled from outside the fence. “You two change places.”

Michael glanced up to find the foreman leaning on the top rail, watching them. Nate didn’t look at Quarrels, but he laid the syringe, which he’d already made ready, back on the table. Without a word, he walked around to where Michael was holding one of the spring lambs.

A small, straw-colored female, she was anxiously watching as her mother was being forced through the exit shoot by Sal Johnson. The lamb voiced her displeasure at that maternal desertion loud and clear.

The adult sheep seemed accustomed to the procedure, but the lambs were a different story. That was part of the reason Michael dreaded having to use this one as a guinea pig for his untested methodology. Conscious that Quarrels was still watching, Michael gave the lamb over to Nate’s more than competent hands and walked around to the front of the table.

He picked up the needle, and as the boy held the lamb in position, he bent over it, searching for the vein in its neck, as he’d watched Nate do a hundred times. The problem was it was less visible on the lambs than on the adults.

He did the best he could, sliding the needle in under the skin. Thankfully, the syringe began to fill with blood. The lamb bleated soulfully, but that seemed more a result of loneliness than pain.

When the vial was full, Michael slid the needle out and straightened. He had begun to turn toward the table to complete the procedure by labeling the vial. Nate’s head was still bent, his left hand holding the small, curly lamb while his right found the tag.

A glitter of silver-gilt where the boy’s lank hair fell forward at the crown caught Michael’s eye. Obviously new growth, it was less than an eighth of an inch long. That line of demarcation between the pale, champagne-blond at the scalp and the muddy brown color of the rest of his hair could only be seen from this angle.

Nate called out the number and then released the lamb, sending her scampering after her mother. Michael pretended to be occupied with the labeling as he considered the implications of what he’d just seen.

It wouldn’t be all that unusual for a boy this age to dye his hair. The more likely scenario, however, would be to go in the other direction. To change the color from a dull brown to that shimmering blond.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the opposite transformation made no sense, unless what he’d suspected last night was true. The kid was on the run.

And for some reason, the mystery of who Nate Beaumont might be hiding from and, more importantly, why was far more intriguing than what would become of the hundreds of vials they had filled this morning with sheep’s blood.

“EVERY ANIMAL in the herd is sampled,” Michael said into his satellite phone. “They bring a part of the flock down from the high pasture on a rotating basis, draw blood and then return them.”

“And no one knows what’s done with the samples that are collected?” Colleen asked.

“If they do, they aren’t saying,” Michael said. “Given the lack of communication among the hands, that’s not surprising. I’ve never seen a stranger conglomeration. Could you run some prints if I sent them to you?”

“We have access to the national database. You have some reason—”

“Just covering the bases.” It was probably a long shot, especially where the kid was concerned, but worth a try. “Before we get into fingerprints, how about running a name for me. See what you come up with.”

He heard a rustle of paper on her end, thankful for the clarity of the sophisticated satellite phone’s transmission. It was the same one he’d used during his last year with the agency. He had taped the phone inside the heater when he’d left to go down to the cabin for breakfast this morning. As far as he could tell, it hadn’t been discovered. Actually, he had found no evidence that anyone had been inside the trailer during his absence, something he hadn’t taken for granted.

It would be a pain remembering to take the phone out of its hiding place and charge it during the few hours the generator ran in the evenings, but it was a necessity. This was the only way he had of communicating with the outside world. And the longer he was here, the more detached he felt from it.

“Okay, shoot,” Colleen said.

“Nate Beaumont,” he said, spelling the last name. “Since that’s probably not his real name, consider anything close. Same initials, for example. I doubt you’ll find anything criminal. I’d be more interested in missing persons. Lost or abducted kids. Runaways. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Blue-eyed blonde. Five-ten or -eleven.”

“You think he’s involved in something on the ranch?”

“I think he’s hiding out here. I’m curious to know why.”

“Okay,” she said again, but he could hear skepticism in her voice.

He didn’t blame her. Even he couldn’t put his finger on what bothered him about the kid. It was like having someone’s name on the tip of your tongue and still not being able to figure out who they were.

“Everything all right there?” she asked, the note of sisterly anxiety clear, even across the distance.

“Meaning am I all right?”

There was a beat of silence. “Are you?”

“I smell like sheep. A lot of sheep. Other than that I can’t complain. You did intend for this to be boring, didn’t you?”

Another pause.

“Is it?” At least her voice had lightened, losing that tinge of concern he hated.

“I’ll let you know after I’ve been here a few more days. By the way, don’t call me even if you find something on the kid. Let me make the contact. It’s probably safer.”

Without giving her time to respond, he punched the off button with his thumb then laid the phone on the floor beside the bunk. He swung his bare legs up onto the mattress, grimacing as the left one protested. He leaned back against the limp pillow, his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked as he waited for the pain pills he’d taken after his shower to kick in.

There was nothing unusual about a ranch participating in research. Sometimes the money from a study was all that kept a small operation afloat.

Most ranches operated on a pretty narrow profit margin. Judging by the shoddy accommodations and the quality of the four meals he’d been served so far, this was one of them.

He couldn’t see how a run-down sheep operation could have any connection with the Langworthy kidnapping, despite Senator Gettys having a share in the place and the strange atmosphere. And frankly, he was too exhausted to do any serious thinking about the question tonight. At least tomorrow wouldn’t be as hard physically.

He and Beaumont had been instructed to move the sheep they’d taken samples from today back up to higher pastures. It had been a while since he’d straddled a horse, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you forgot. Thankfully it would involve the use of a different set of muscles from those that ached so badly now despite the long, semi-hot shower he’d just taken.

Maybe away from the others, Nate would be more forthcoming. If there were something shady going on here, he’d stake his reputation the kid wasn’t involved in it.

And if he were wrong, then by trying to pick Nate’s brain about what he had seen during the months he’d worked here, Michael would be staking a whole lot more than that.

NICOLA CARSON leaned forward, letting the weak, tepid stream of water run over the back of her neck and bowed head. There wasn’t much she wouldn’t give to be able to take a really good shower. The kind she used to take for granted. Strong spray. Gallons of hot water. Lots of steam.

Actually, there was something she wouldn’t give. Which was why she was living here on the Half Spur in the first place.

Living. Despite the primitive conditions and the fact that she hadn’t seen her mother in more than eight months, she wasn’t ready to risk her life in order to leave.

Most of the time she’d felt safe here. The exception to that feeling of security was when someone new entered the picture. Someone like McAdams.

She reminded herself that she had had this same sense of impending doom every time a hand signed on. It had gradually faded as each was assimilated into the strange world in which she now existed.

Of course, none of the others had seemed as interested in that world as Mac did. His questions today had made her increasingly uncomfortable.

He was different from the drifters and misfits Quarrels normally hired. She had decided early on those choices were deliberate, which made his hiring of McAdams even more peculiar.

She turned, letting the water run down between her breasts. Unconsciously, she cupped her palms under them, turning from side to side to let the spray wash play over her chest.

It was only at times like these, in the privacy of the tiny shower inside her trailer, that she could afford to acknowledge her femininity. The rest of the day she tried to merge totally into the role she was playing. A role that had so far kept her alive.

That was the other thing that bothered her about McAdams. The way he made her feel. Like a woman—and that was something she couldn’t afford.

Maybe it was because he was undeniably attractive. Exactly the kind of man she had always been drawn to.

Or maybe, after months of being virtually ignored by everyone around her, it was the way he looked at her. Really looked. As if he were trying to see through her.

She opened her eyes at the thought, staring at the plastic laminate in front of her as the words echoed in her brain.

As if he were trying to see through her.

That’s exactly what he did. He watched her. He questioned her. He studied her. As if he were trying to figure out who and what she was.

Hand trembling, she reached out and shut off the flow of water. She forced her eyes to focus on her fingers, which were still gripping the knob. Assessing them.

Short, broken nails. Sunburned skin that always looked a little grimy. A few half-healed nicks and scrapes.

There was absolutely nothing feminine about them. Nothing to give her away.

And she had always had a deep voice for a woman. Everyone commented on it. A whiskey voice, her grandmother had called it. That huskiness was one of the things that had made her think she might be able to pull this off. And in the six months she’d lived here, no one had seemed to think twice about its timbre.

Her size, too, was in her favor. She was tall and thin enough to appear boyish, especially in the kind of shapeless garments she wore.

She hadn’t been able to do anything to disguise her features, other than keep her head down. She had done that today, her gaze focused on the task at hand. Last night, however…

Looking at him had been a mistake. She’d known it as soon as their eyes had made contact, but by then it had been too late to do anything about it.

Too late. Too late.

She doubled up her fists and slammed them against the wall of the shower. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, laying her forehead against her clenched hands.

After several frozen seconds, she opened them, stretching her fingers flat against the stall. Then she pushed away from it, standing straight and tall. Fighting for control.

That kind of thinking was nothing but sheer, mindless paranoia. McAdams was a new hand. That’s all he was. There had been a dozen before him, and when he was gone, a dozen others would follow.

She couldn’t allow herself to become suspicious. That wariness would make her self-conscious. Inclined to say or do something stupid when he was around. She needed to go on acting exactly as she had been before he’d shown up here.

Just another drifter, she told herself, determined not to let that smothering sense of terror that had followed the attack at the Metro station take control of her again. He’s just a man. Just like all the others on the ranch.

Except he wasn’t.

The image of strange, blue-green eyes that seemed to see through her was suddenly in her head. Hands that moved with a completely masculine grace. Corded forearms, tanned and covered with a fuzz of gold. Far lighter than the hair that curled against the collar of his shirt. Maybe that was just a trick of the sunlight—

A trick of the sunlight.

The thought was terrifying. She reached out and grabbed the frayed, graying towel off the bar. She wrapped it around her body, sarong-style, and stepped hurriedly out of the enclosure.

The mirror over the sink was clouded with age and moisture. Almost afraid of what she might see in it, she fumbled for the hand towel on the rack and after a second’s hesitation, used it to wipe off the surface.

Then she leaned closer, lifting her bangs with her right hand. Along the scalp was a narrow line of blond. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d put the dye on, but obviously it had been too long ago.

She dropped the bangs, parting the hair on the top of her head with shaking fingers. Turning to catch the light from the bare bulb above the sink. Even in this dimness, the new growth was clearly visible, several shades lighter than the rest.

And she must have ducked her head a hundred times today. Hiding her face. Concealing, or so she thought, the one thing that might give her away. The one thing that might make him question. Wonder. Think about her at all.

And tomorrow she would be alone with him all day. Away from the safety of the pens and the public areas and other people. She could feel that mindless apprehension growing, tightening her chest and making it hard to breathe.

Drifter. He’s just a drifter. She fought against her panic, repeating the words like a litany. Determined to force their reality into her brain. He isn’t here because of you. You are no more to him than Quarrels or any of the others.

Long into the night, eyes open and staring in the darkness, she made herself say them over and over, trying desperately to believe that they might be true.